The Dark Place
by Dautr abr du Sundavar
Summary: A conversation with Moz leads Neal to flash back and remember...Rated for darkness. R&R please.


**A/N: Yeah...remember that scene from the season 2 premiere? "Withdrawal"? The one where Neal and Mozzie are talking about the case Neal just took - his first one back? Yeah...that's kinda what started this whole thing. It'll make more sense once you start reading x) Enjoy! Or don't. It is angst, after all :D**

**Disclaimer: I do not own White Collar. Though I would love me a Nealy...*purr***

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><p><em>"Since when have you taken an interest in FBI cases?" Neal asked Moz.<br>"Since you started spiraling into the Dark Place," his friend replied._

Neal sat remembering that moment, chin propped on his entwined fingers. Two words, Dark Place, but so perfect; and yet, at the same time, so insufficient. But if Mozzie thought Neal was only beginning to "spiral," as he put it, then Neal was a better con man than he had given himself credit for – which was saying something.

Sure, it had been two months since Kate had died, and sure, Peter had said some things that had made Neal doubt, but you don't just "get over" the death of someone you love, let alone in two months. Maybe Neal was healing, but he had hit rock bottom of the Dark Place and kept right on going, full force.

The first days after the explosion had been the worst of his life. Worse than when his mother had died, worse than when Adler had betrayed him. Worse than the day he found out the truth about his father. Neal had been in a sort of numb, semiconscious haze for about a week after the jet exploded, aware only enough to take care of the basic necessities of life and answer the occasional question. But the pain didn't hit until he was jarred back to reality by Peter's visit and the realization that he may have to stay in prison. Then...then his heart felt like it was in a billion tiny pieces, and each razor-sharp piece was digging into his chest. He pulled himself together long enough to act like his normal self for Peter and Mozzie, but when he got back to his cell, he curled up in a ball on his pathetic excuse for a bed and tried his very hardest not to break down and weep. He was mostly successful – more than a few tears fell, but not a sob escaped him – but that day marked the beginning of the greatest, most intricate con of his life.

Convincing everyone that he was in one piece.

Oh, he knew he couldn't completely fool everyone, especially Peter and Moz. He would settle for seeming a little unstable if it masked the fact that there was a jagged hole where his heart used to be. If it hid the tiny little pieces his soul had shattered into like so much glass.

There wasn't a song that could describe his agony, not a painting that could represent his state of mind. If there were, it would be so confusing, yet so utterly, horrendously miserable, that it would break the heart of anyone who heard or saw it. There would be red, Neal mused, red and orange and deep blue, and black. Lots of black. Black as the spaces between the stars, black as the abyss the pieces of his heart had fallen into.

Black as the thoughts in his mind.

For a few days after Peter saw him in prison and Mozzie sneaked in as his lawyer, Neal was afraid that he was losing his mind. It seemed that the pain crowded out all rational thought until it seemed it would literally drive him mad. He could neither eat nor sleep, yet he was always hungry and tired. If he dreamed – which was rare – it was of that day, but twisted by his subconscious. Sometimes he saved Kate, only to watch her burn from the inside out. Sometimes he was in the plane with her, and awoke gasping with red and orange flames still dancing before his eyes. Still other times he stood, rooted to the concrete floor of the hangar, as she smiled and waved him in before disappearing in a ball of fire.

Other dreams were darker.

He longed to dream a dream of Kate and himself on a beach somewhere, talking, sipping martinis, and simply being alive together. Those, however, never came. Instead he was tormented by the explosion, which found its way into the waking dreams that came over him when he hadn't slept for fear of what he would see.

Sometimes he felt as though the Grim Reaper was stalking him, angry that Neal hadn't died on the plane. He would feel a chill on his spine from the stone wall and imagine that it was the shadow of Death welcoming him with its icy breath. A wry smile touched his lips as he reflected that he had become about as paranoid as Mozzie. But in those days, there had been no smiles of any kind, only tears that streamed behind his eyes.

Eventually, the inner tears stopped. Then the anger set in. He knew that someone had killed Kate, knew they had wanted to kill him, and knew that they would pay for what he had done. But they wouldn't pay the justice system's way, oh, no. They would pay his way, in pain.

He shoved all thoughts of Peter and his warnings out of his head when these thoughts came, and tried to imagine how the person or people responsible would atone for Kate's death. He never could come up with anything good, though. He had never been a particularly violent person. Maybe he could simply hand the killer over to someone in the criminal underworld. Not a gun-for-hire, but someone who would make a target suffer. Yes, that was probably what he would end up doing – if he ever got out of prison and found out who the killer was.

That presented some problems.

Getting out of prison would entail being re-released into Peter's custody as a CI. But Peter would instantly know something was wrong with Neal, demand – nicely – that Neal tell him, and try to keep Neal from finding and punishing Kate's killer his way.

That could not happen.

Thus, Neal began schooling himself harder than ever to hide his emotions. It was so far from easy he couldn't even see "easy" from where he was, but it apparently worked. Peter didn't ask too many questions, and Neal was able to try and track down the man who made the jet explode.

But it was only a front, one he even presented to Mozzie. On the inside, he was still in uncountable razor-edged pieces. Inside, he was still broken, still dying, still dead. He lived – if you could call his state of being "living" – in a state of half-fear/half-hope that someone would discover how he really was and ask. He had never been particularly good at expressing his feelings through words, but now? Forget about it. No one could describe this. Not even Neal Caffrey, the man who could talk his way into or out of anything. But the thing was, he almost wanted to try. To talk to someone, he didn't know whom, but anyone who could help him to put the past behind him. Because whether he liked it or not, Kate was part of the past now, and no amount of plotting, planning, sleepless nights, or inner turmoil would bring her back.

The thought never had failed to make him cry, at least on the inside.

And it certainly didn't now.

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><p><strong>AN: Please leave a review! I luff reviews, and so does Neal! Right Neal?  
>Neal: Uh...<br>Whatever. You know you do! :D So please, people, drop a review on my head.  
><strong>


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